A Malfoy Does Not Love
by Sharp Tongued
Summary: Draco has run away after the Wart to flee his past. Ginny finds him. What does she teach him? DxG. Character death(s). Companion piece to "A Weasley Does Not Forget."


**Author's Note:** I broke my own code and have a semi-redeemed Draco. Shoot me now. Please. Anyway, this is set after the war, so spoilers through Book 5, the rest would be AU. This has a companion piece from Ginny's P.O.V. called "A Weasley Does Not Forget" if you want to read it (it will clear up some issues as well, so I recommend reading it.) Also? Don't own the characters, I just borrow them from JKR and all the rightful owners for a bit of fun. Okay, I think that's everything.

On with the show...

* * *

A Malfoy does not love.

"_Draco. What _are_ you doing?" His mother asked the six-year-old boy, who had wrapped his arms around her legs._

_"What those filthy little Mudbloods were doing earlier." Tipping his head up to look at his mother, grey eyes stared innocently into midnight blue ones._

"_Malfoys do not _hug_." She spit the word out as if it would bite her. _

"_Oh." Draco dropped his arms and felt as if he had been hit. His face mirrored his feelings._

"_Come along, Draco. Your father demands your presence." As she guided him away, she decided to not tell Lucius of this incident. Love was not permitted; not even between a parent and child. Love was an ugly word and displays of such were not tolerated. She would spare him punishment this time._

Nearly fourteen years later he wondered if that was why she would send all those treats to Hogwarts and demanded – for once against his father – that he stay in England. It was a pity he could no longer ask her, but dead women told no tales.

Dead. She had been dead for nearly three years and it was difficult for him to even remember her now. Perhaps it was intentional so the hurt would not cripple him. Of course, the hurt was not for her, as he had never truly loved her since he had never been shown how. He had held great affection for her on the rare times she had stood against her husband, but love? Never love. The hurt came from never experiencing such a simple emotion from the woman who gave him life.

Emotions were nothing more than a form of blackmail. Unbreakable wills could be crushed with the simple statement of "Tell us or she dies." Draco had witnessed such tactics since birth; he knew how well they worked. And he saw the bleeding, dead bodies being tossed out when his father had finished with them. No, emotions other than distain only landed one in trouble.

A Malfoy does not love.

His father was a shining example of that. Lucius had never said, "I love you" to anyone. He hadn't loved Narcissa or his son, nor the few lovers Draco had spotted him with before his death.

"_Father, what's love?" A tentative seven-year-old Draco asked the man whom he admired — and feared -- so much. _

"_A filthy Mudblood expression that upper Wizards do not allow. _Love_," Lucius snarled the word out, "is something that Malfoys do not allow. It clouds judgment and self-preservation." Lucius paused for a moment, thinking. "One is never to let their guard down, especially for love. It will give you nothing in the end. Malfoys do _not_ love."_

"_Not even Mother?" Draco let his thought slip out and was reward with a sneer._

"_No, not even _Mother_," Lucius mocked, "not even _you_. Malfoys do not allow _tender_ emotions."_

Draco had often thought that was the start of his hatred towards anyone that had the freedom to feel. Mudbl -- Muggles, he amended -- the Weasels, Potter, Granger. All the people he grew up envious of. It galled him to add Potter in there, but at least he had someone care for him: enough to die in fact, and if more than one person had died, well, it just made his envy extend into a deep hatred.

A Malfoy does not love.

He knew that statement well. When his father had died at the hands of the werewolf in the final battle, he had not mourned. The fact of the matter was Draco had not even been around, having fled the scene while his Mark burned painfully on his arm. When he had slipped on Snape's slick blood, he ran faster and further away, all the while trying to keep the bile down that kept rising in his mouth.

Suddenly the Mark stopped burning, stopped torturing him. It was then he knew the Lord was dead and would not rise again. It was three weeks later that he learnt The-Boy-Who-Lived could no longer hold that name.

It was almost two years after that when he learnt of the prophecy that Dumbledore had hidden so well. A Malfoy – even a deserter – does have access to certain information. It was then that he knew all those years of being taught the Malfoy way had not helped him in the end.

In the end, it had been a gangly looking girl with brassy red hair and freckles across her nose that had helped him. She had succeeded in doing what no one else had: find him. She had claimed by accident, but he did not trust her word. There was a gleam in her eyes that spoke of more; however, he would never know of what.

She skirted the issue, instead taking care of him. He insisted he did not need anyone, and she would smile patiently, as if dealing with a toddler, going about her tasks. It had infuriated him, while intriguing him. He had never had someone look out for his well-being, at least not so openly. It left him feeling disjointed. He would not have the opportunity to question his keeper though.

The littlest Weasel had died in his arms a mere three months after she had arrived – a former Death Eater had followed her to avenge his Lord's death and kill the deserter Malfoy – and he felt something. It twisted inside him. Mentally knocking him to the ground. He was feeling loss. Something he had never felt in his life.

His arm pulled his wand out at its own volition and his mouth said the words to kill the Death Eater, while barely registering his actions.

His only friend he had was gone. The one person that had not cared about his flight, who had accepted his word and left the past alone. He felt like crying – a rare emotion for a Malfoy to display – but would not indulge. This feeling was starting to smother him: taking his breath away and making him unable to breathe.

It was not love. It could never be love.

A Malfoy does not love.

"Love."

The word felt foreign on Draco's tongue; leaving a bitter aftertaste that coated his mouth like some Muggle candy. It felt wrong. Malfoys do not love; an emotion that was beneath of such a powerful wizard. Hate was welcome, affection allowed, but love was not permitted.

A Malfoy does not love.

Then he wondered, still holding her body, why did he feel like he had just lost something precious?

His father was wrong.

A Malfoy does love.

* * *

**Author's Note 2:** I know I repeated that statement a lot. It was intentional. It was the words of his Pureblood family ways rattling in his head. I also know it's not exactly linear, but it's following what he would see and feel. And yes, Snape was dead. I hated killing him, but well someone had to be a casualty near Draco, and I think Snape would try and save Draco as he's fond of the boy. 


End file.
